STUDY IN CHINA GLOBAL (SCG)作品原文
宗璞 《废墟的召唤》
冬日的斜阳无力地照在这一片田野上，刚是下午，清华气象台上边的天空，已显出月芽儿的轮廓。顺着近年修的柏油路，左侧是干皱的田地，看上去十分坚硬，这里那里，点缀着断石残碑。右侧在夏天是一带荷塘，现在也只剩下冬日的凄冷。转过布满枯树的小山，那一大片废墟呈现在眼底时，我总有一种奇怪的感觉，好像历史忽然倒退到了古希腊罗马时代。而在乱石衰草中间，仿佛该有着妲己、’褒姒的窈窕身影，若隐若现，迷离扑朔，因为中国社会出奇的”稳定性”，几千年来的传统一直到那拉氏，还不中止。
这一带废墟是圆明园中长春园的一部分，从东到西，有圆形的台，长方形的观，已看不出形状的堂和小门的方形的亭基。原来都是西式建筑，故俗称西洋楼。在莽苍苍的原野上，这一组建筑遗迹宛如一列正在覆没的船只，而那丛生的荒草，便是海藻，杂陈的乱石，便是这荒野的海洋中的一簇簇泡沫了。三十多年前，初来这里，曾想，下次来时，它该下沉了罢?它该让出地方，好建设新的一切。但是每次再来，它还是停泊在原野上，远瀛观的断石柱，在灰蓝色的天空下，依然寂寞地站着，显得西周那样空荡荡，那样无依无靠。大水法的拱形石门，依然卷着波涛。观水法的石屏上依然陈列着兵器甲胄，那、雕镂还是那样清晰，那样有力。但石波不兴，雕兵永驻，这蒙受了奇耻大辱的废墟，只管悠闲地、若无其事地停泊着。
时间在这里，如石刻一般，停滞了，凝固了。建筑家说，建筑是凝固的音乐。建筑的遗迹，又是什么呢?凝固了的历史么?看那海晏堂前(也许是堂侧)的石饰，像一个近似半圆形的容器，年轻时，曾和几个朋友坐在里面照相。现在石”碗”依旧，我当然懒得爬上去了，但是我却欣然。因为我的变化，无非是自然规律之功罢了。我毕竟没有凝固——。
对着这一段凝固的历史，我只有怅然凝望。大水法与观水法之间的大片空地，原来是两座大喷泉，想那水姿之美，已到了标准境界，所以以”法”为名。西行可见一座高大的废墟，上大下小，像是只剩了一截的、倒置的金字塔。悄立”塔”下，觉得人是这样渺小，天地是这样广阔，历史是这样悠久——
路旁的大石龟仍然无表情地蹲伏着。本该竖立在它背上的石碑躺倒在土坡旁。它也许很想驮着这碑，尽自己的责任罢。风在路另侧的小树林中呼啸，忽高忽低，如泣如诉，仿佛从废墟上飘来了”留——留——”的声音。
我诧异地回转身去看了。暮色四合，与外观的石块白得分明，几座大石叠在一起，露出一个空隙，像要对我开口讲话。告诉我这里经历的烛天的巨火么？告诉我时间在这里该怎样衡量么?还是告诉我你的向往，你的期待？
风又从废墟上吹过，依然发出”留——留——”的声音。我忽然醒悟了。它是在召唤!召唤人们留下来，改造这凝固的历史。废墟，不愿永久停泊。
然而我没有为这斗争过么?便在这大龟旁，我们几个人曾怎样热烈地争辩呵。那时的我，是何等慨慷激昂，是何等地满怀热忱!但是走的只管走了。和人类比较起来，个人的一生是小得多的概念了。而我们呢?我们的经历自不必提起了。我却愿无愧于这小得多的概念。楚国早已是湖北省，但楚辞的光辉，不是永远充塞于天地之间么？
空中一阵鸦噪，抬头只见寒鸦万点，驮着夕阳，掠过枯树林，转眼便消失在已呈粉红色的西天。在它们的翅膀底下，晚霞已到最艳丽的时刻，西山在朦胧中涂抹了一层娇红，轮廓渐渐清楚起来。那娇红口又透出一点蓝，显得十分凝重，正配得上空气中摸得着的寒意。
这景象也是我熟悉的，我不由得闭上眼睛。
“断碣残碑，都付与苍烟落照。”身旁的年轻人在自言自语。事隔30余年，我又在和年轻人辩论了。我不怪他们，怎能怪他们呢!我嗫嚅着，很不理直气壮。”留下来吧!就因为是废墟，需要每一个你呵。”
“匹夫有责。”年轻人是敏锐的，他清楚地说出我嗫嚅着的话。”但是怎样尽每一个我的责任?怎样使环境允许每一个我尽责任?”他微笑，笑容介于冷和苦之间。
我忽然理直气壮起来：”那怎样，不就是内容么？”
他不答，他也停了说话，且看那瞬息万变的落照。迤逦行来，已到水边。水已成冰，冰中透出枝枝荷梗，枯梗上漾着绮辉。远山凹处，红日正沉，只照得天边山顶一片通红。岸边几株枯树，恰为夕阳做了画框。框外娇红的西山，这时却全是黛青色，鲜嫩润泽，．一派雨后初晴的模样，似与这黄昏全不相干，但也有浅淡的光，照在框外的冰上，使人想起月色的清冷。
树旁乱草中惠宰有声，原来有人作画。他正在调色板上蘸着颜色，蘸了又擦，擦了又蘸，好像不知怎样才能把那奇异的色彩捕捉在纸上。
“他不是画家。”年轻人评论道，”他只是爱这景色——”
前面高耸的断桥便是整个圆明园唯一的遗桥了。远望如一个乱石堆，近看则桥的格局宛在。桥背很高，桥面只剩了一小半，不过桥下水流如线，过水早不必登桥了。
“我也许可以想一想，想一想这废墟的召唤。”年轻人忽然微笑说，那笑容仍然介于冷和苦之间。
我们仍望着落照。通红的火球消失了，剩下的远山显出一层层深浅不同的紫色。浓处如酒，淡处如梦。那不浓不淡处使我想起春日的紫藤萝，这铺天的霞锦，需要多少个藤萝花瓣啊。
仿佛听得说要修复圆明桥了，我想，能不能留下一部分废墟呢?最好是远瀛观一带，或只是这座桥，也可以的。
为了什么呢!为了凭吊这一段凝固的历史，为了记住废墟的召唤。
作品译文
The Call of the Ruins
The setting sun of winter shines feebly upon the field. It is just afternoon, and yet the contour of the crescent moon is already visible over the Observatory of Qinghua University nearby. Walking along the newly paved road, I see on my left dry and cracked land, here and there dotted with crumbling stones and broken tablets. On the right where there once used to be a series of lotus ponds in summer, all that is now left is the desolation of winter. The road winds round a small hill, and then vast stretches of ruins appear before me. Suddenly I feel as if time has retreated into the period of ancient Greece and Rome. I feel as if fluttering among the jumbled mass of ruins could be seen the graceful figures of Daji, imperial concubine of King Zhou, last ruler of the Shang Dynasty, and of Baosi, queen-consort of King You, last ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty. Because of the unusual “stability” of Chinese society, the tradition of thousands of years has been handed down all the way to the Empress Dowager Cixi and is now still being passed on.
The ruins here were once part of Changchunyuan within Yuanmingyuan, a grand imperial garden destroyed by the Anglo-French Allied Forces in 1860. From east to west, the remains of foundations of round platforms, rectangular open-air terraces, halls whose shapes cannot be identified, and small but exquisite square pavilions lie scattered about. Originally, they were built in the European style, and were therefore customarily referred to as the Western Buildings. In the field, this group of ruins is just like a stranded ship, the dense weeds like seaweeds, and the chaotic mass of stones like foam, riding upon this vast and desolate sea. When I was here for the first time more than thirty years ago, I thought that the ship would surely sink the next time I was here. It should leave a space free for the construction of something new. However every time I am here again, it is still anchored in the field. Under the grayish blue sky, the solitary broken stone column of Yuanyingguan only stands to highlight the surrounding emptiness. The arched stone gate of Grand Waterworks is still swept by waves carved into its surface. On the stone screen of Viewing the Grand Waterworks, the engravings of arms and armor are still distinct and appealing. But the waves carved on the stone do not move, and the engraved soldiers are motionless. The ruins which have suffered galling shame and humiliation are simple anchored there leisurely, as if nothing had ever happened.
Here time becomes stagnate and solidified, like the carved stone. Architects say that architecture is solidified music. Then what are the ruins of architecture? History solidified? The stone ornaments in front of the Hall of Peaceful Sea form a semicircular structure, like a bowl. When I was young, I once had a picture taken inside it together with several of my friends. Although now the stone “bowl” looks as if did before. I of course do not feel like climbing inside it. But I am still gratified, because the changes in me are no more than the effects of the laws of nature. After all, I am not solidified…
Disappointed, I have only to gaze at this part of solidified history to find solace. In the big open space between the Grand Waterworks and Viewing the Grand Waterworks, there used to be two large fountains. The fountains were called “Fa” because the bushing spring water was so graceful as to have reached the ultimate standard of beauty. Walking westwards, I see a vast piece of ruin, perched like a pyramid turned upside down. Standing quietly under the “pyramid,” I feel that human beings are so insignificant, heaven and earth so vast, and history so long…
The big stone tortoise on the roadside is still squatting on its heels, with a blank expression on its face. The stone tablet which should have stood tall and upright on the back of the tortoise is now lying on the ground nearby. Who knows, perhaps the tortoise is anxious to discharge its duty and carry the tablet on its back. A wind is whistling through the woods on the other side of the road, sometimes high and sometimes low, weeping and pouring out its heart. I seem to hear the words “Stay, stay…” drifting from the ruin.
I am surprised, and turn round. It is twilight, and the square-shaped stones are distinctly white. Several big stones are piled up together, with a gap in the middle as if it were a mouth speaking, as if telling me about the huge fire here which burned to the sky? Or about how time should be measured here? Or are you going to tell me your yearnings and expectations?
The wind is blowing through the ruins again and making human sounds “Stay, stay…” Suddenly I realize what it is saying. It is calling! It is calling people to stay and to transform this solidified history. The ruins would not like to be anchored forever!
And yet have I not made endeavors towards this end? It was just by the side of this big stone tortoise that several of us once had a heated argument. At the time we were so impassioned, full of enthusiasm. Compared with the whole of mankind, one’s personal life is such a minor concept. But each of us had a right to a different interpretation. I only want to stress that although the state of Chu in the Warring States period has long since become the province of Hubei, yet is it not true that the glory of the Elegies of Chu will resonate between heaven and earth forever?
The cawing of crows is heard in the sky. I raise my head and see a myriad of crows, carrying the setting sun on their backs, fly over the withered forest and disappear into the western sky. The sunset is at its most beautiful moment. In the receding light, the Western Hills are coated with a layer of red whose contours are increasingly clear. The red is dotted with blue here and there, lending an air of pensiveness to the view, in perfect keeping with the chill in the air.
That is a familiar sight. I cannot help closing my eyes.
“All the stone tablets are left to the gray dusk and the setting sun,” the young man by my side said to himself. After an interval of more than thirty years, I am arguing with young people again. I do not blame them. They are not to blame! I speak haltingly, not with perfect assurance. “Stay here! It is just because they are ruins that each of you is needed.”
“Every man has a share of responsibility.” The young man is sharp, and he says outright what I tried to convey haltingly. “But how is each person to shoulder his share of responsibility? How to make the environment more favorable for each person to the discharging of his duty?” He is smiling with an air between coldness and bitterness.
I suddenly asserted myself. “Isn’t this part of the responsibility?”
He does not reply and I also stopped talking, gazing at the glow of the setting sun. Winding my may down, I arrive at the margin of the lake. The water is already frozen, and the ice is punctured by lotus stems which, though withered, still have a lingering charm. In the distance, the hilltops are all aglow. Several withered trees on the bank serve as a picture-frame for the setting sun. The whole scene appears as if the sun were shining again after a shower. But there is still a faint light illuminating the ice outside the picture-frame, reminding people of the desolateness of the winter moonlight.
Rustling sounds are heard among the jumble of grass near the trees, and someone is seen painting. He is dipping his paint brush into his palette, painting colors and wiping them off again, as if not knowing how to capture that strange hue on paper.
“He is no painter,” the young man commented. “He merely loves the scenery.”
The Broken Bridge, still tall and erect, is the only surviving bridge in the whole of Yuanmingyuan. Seen from a distance, the bridge is like a pile of disorderly stones. But at a closer look, the pattern of a bridge is still discernible. The bridge arch is very high, and only a small part of it remains. However, the stream under the bridge is shrunken to a thread, and as far as one can remember, people never had to climb the bridge to cross the stream.
“Maybe I can think it over, think over the call of the ruins,” the young man smiled suddenly, with an air between coldness and bitterness.
We are still looking at the setting sun; the red ball of fire gradually disappears, leaving the distant hills in different shades of purple. The dark purple is like liquor, and the light purple like a dream. The shade in-between reminds me of wisteria in spring. How many wisterias would be needed to form these rose-tinted clouds which cover the sky?
It is said that Yuanmingyuan is going to be renovated. I wonder if it is possible to leave some of the ruins as they are. It would be best if the area around Yuanmingyuan at least could be left as it is. And just as well to leave this Broken Bridge.
Why? To evoke a sense of the past by looking at this piece of solidified history. For bearing in mind the call of the ruins.
